


"It's the Journey"

by adabsolutely



Series: It's the Journey [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-29
Updated: 2009-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-04 00:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adabsolutely/pseuds/adabsolutely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos and MacLeod set off together on a journey to help the oldest immortal solve the puzzle of his reoccurring dream.</p><p>My first Highlander story, written in 2003.  Thanks to Sipaj for beta duty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"It's the Journey"

"It's the Journey"

 

Chapter 1: NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR WEATHER (It's not your fault)

In a night terror's grasp the old immortal thrashed his bedding to the floor. Violent scenes ran through his mind — a slave collar tightened around his long neck, then the twisting of Kronos's knife in his chest, a death by stoning flicked past, finally a baby's cry shattered the dream. Then he was on his feet and running to the front door of his London home before fully awake. He yanked it open to find — nothing — a drizzly dawn, but no baby on his doorstep. He'd been so sure this time.

Slowly he retraced his path through the entry, the ballroom, the connecting hall, and living room — quietly passing by the sleeping form on his couch — back toward his bedroom, and almost making it.

"Good morning, Methos," the lump spoke.

"Sorry, Mac, I didn't mean to wake you. Of course, if you were to sleep in one of the upstairs bedrooms my morning exercise wouldn't bother you."

First tousled hair, then brown eyes, and finally a wide grin appeared from under a wool blanket. "But I wouldn't be nearly so annoying up there."

"There is that." It was good to hear the younger MacLeod joking again, finally, many months after Connor's death.

MacLeod explained, "It's your jittery old buzz, I can't sleep with you on the periphery of my range. Keeps me awake all night when I'm on the fringe upstairs."

"It doesn't bother me."

"I'm not surprised. Anyone who could sleep in the vicinity of Kronos for a thousand years could sleep through anything."

"What makes you think I slept?"

"That would explain a lot. Well? Tell me." MacLeod pointed toward the front door.

"I just needed to check the weather." He knew it was a weak excuse, but was stalling while thinking up a good story.

"You can do better than that."

Methos hadn't really expected the Highlander to accept such a weak explanation. But no way was he telling him about the baby dream. But as he watched the laughter disappear from MacLeod's eyes he chose a tale to tell, before his friend's good mood completely vanished.

"I was dreaming about something that happened to me so long ago I can no longer remember where it happened, but I remember the people." Methos drew in a breath. "Once upon a time I made the mistake of apologizing for the weather. I'd stopped to chat with a vendor at this tiny market near my humble dwelling — I can't remember my exact occupation at the time — but I was trying to blend in as usual. Normally, you can safely glean useful information in an open market about the local customs and superstitions. Anyway, I was gossiping with this vendor who told me about a devastating flood in a village to the north. I mentioned I had recently passed through there, and that I was sorry for the rain. I don't know why this happened, maybe I just looked like a demon to them. The vendor started raving, pointing at me 'this one, this one, he cursed my sister's village with rain, he admitted it! He caused her family to be swept away!'

"They stoned me, Mac. Because I said I was sorry for the rain. Never apologize for the weather."

MacLeod blinked once, twice, then smiled and shook his head.

"That's a fine story Methos, but what does it have to do with you rushing to the door at dawn the last four mornings in a row? Are you expecting to find a baby on your step?"

Methos was startled by MacLeod's lucky guess, _kid must be physic_ but recovered quickly.

"Oh, yes, I'm expecting the second coming of Kronos in a reed basket." His voice dripped sarcasm.

MacLeod snickered. "Oh! Then we'll be sure to give him to wild wolves."

"This would be in contrast to the tame wolves that raised me?"

The Highlander laughed. "It seems a better choice. Come on Methos, let's go for a run before breakfast, exercise away your demons."

He agreed, if only to bury the subject of his dream. It was a moderate run from his Bloomsbury home to Regency Park on a cool spring morning. They took a break in Queen Mary's Garden before turning back.

Sprawled on a bench people watching, amongst the heliotrope and lavender, Methos asked, "Why are all the women dressed in dark clothes these days? I see in the shop windows many colorful jumpers — but they don't wear them in London nowadays."

"Longing for the sixties, Doc?"

MacLeod had taken to calling Methos "Doc" in public since he began his extended sojourn on the old immortal's davenport, after discovering that most of the Brit immortals they came across knew the oldest as Doc. At first it was awkward for both of them — Byron had called him Doc, and the poet's ghost still languished between them, but Mac had begun to stand on the hard ground again since embracing his teacher's quickening and rather insisted that Methos stand there too. No retreating for himself, and a lot less prevarication from his wily friend.

"I don't remember the sixties," Methos tried.

"I don't believe you."

"My lot in life — to never be believed except when it gets me stoned."

MacLeod groaned, as required by the local friends of punsters union.

Chapter 2: DARK ALLEYS ARE A BAD THING

The day passed peacefully, Methos doing his work translating old texts on a freelance basis for the many London museums, and MacLeod doing whatever it was that seemed to occupy his days during the months he had been camped out on his friend's couch. Methos wasn't sure what MacLeod did, he suspected that the Scot did a lot of wandering around London, but did not ask. Calling attention to the younger immortal's brooding would only give him one more thing on which to dwell.

In the late afternoon Methos called MacLeod's cell phone and invited him to meet for dinner at an Indian restaurant hidden on a side street along the route between his home and the University. Always crowded, Ravi Shankar's curries were excellent, and the staff friendly. Pleasantly full they wandered home, avoiding the gang of young men who were strutting their feathers on the corner.

"Care for a beer?"

"There's beer at home." MacLeod answered, and Methos was pleased to hear him call his house home. That MacLeod preferred to go there instead of a pub — that almost felt like family to him.

Methos smiled hiding his thoughts, thinking what a sentimental old fool he turned into —_hang it out there, and get it crushed when your young friend moves on. Never learn, do you? Oh well. Enjoy the companionship while you can. No doubt you'll be alone again soon enough._

They strolled north toward home. Night had settled on the city, and the darkness was regularly interrupted by pools of light from street lamps. Near the juncture of two pools, where the darkness was least disturbed, from an alley perpendicular to their path, the buzz of another immortal touched them. Methos increased the speed of his steps. MacLeod stopped.

Three strides, then Methos paused, "Mac, please don't — ." His eyes followed MacLeod into the alley.

"I'm getting tired of this guy following me around," he replied over his shoulder.

"What guy?"

Against his better judgment, Methos followed his friend toward the alley.

_Damn._

"Can't you ever walk away, Highlander?"

"I have been, but I rather like this alley."

He bit back his retort. MacLeod's words weren't really meant for him after all, but for the shadow with a rapier and the jittery buzz, standing thirty meters down the alley.

It was a good choice the eldest mused. Wider than most alleys, cement instead of brick pavers — good for footing. Minimal lighting was a negative, and fighting so soon after a meal wasn't recommended, but you can't have everything.

Methos wanted to ask who the challenger was, obviously it wasn't their first encounter, but it was now time to let his friend concentrate. He stood in the mouth of the alley as MacLeod approached his challenger.

The shadow spoke, "Need back-up MacLeod? Can't play on your own?"

"The kid won't interfere, he just likes to watch."

Methos smiled. It wasn't the first time MacLeod had attempted to protect Methos' status as an elder, though this tactic worked best with immortals too young to judge accurately the strength of another's buzz. This one felt old enough to know better.

The sudden clash of steel jolted Methos out of his musings. He stopped breathing as he watched the deadly dance. _Damn, damn._ Semi-darkness created shadow theater; glinting steel danced.

The players backed away from the practice round, and tossed overcoats aside. Un-pleasantries snarled, before resuming. Methos' gut clinched. _Damn, damn, damn._ Thrilling and horrifying. _Bloody young fools._ MacLeod floated, turning the challenger so his back was to Methos occasionally, hopefully unnerving the strange immortal. But his opponent was very good, meeting each thrust and parry, maintaining control; refusing to be driven.

Methos had just notched up his level of worry when he felt the tingle of another immortal presence somewhere on the main street. It hovered at the edge of his range, and stayed out of sight.

Then he was shocked by the sound of head as it hit the pavement and rolled.

"MacLeod?"

No answer. The lurker's buzz became mobile, rapidly approaching their position. No time for fear. Methos dashed to the severed head, turning the face with a shaking hand — a stranger — _thank the gods._ Rapidly he placed himself between the mouth of the alley and MacLeod still in the shadows, but who would soon be illuminated by a quickening.

Methos drew his Ivanhoe, and waited as the light show commenced behind him. The electric crackling, then a moan of pain and sensory assault upped Methos's foreboding. The blood pounding in his ears made it impossible to hear the footsteps of the giant lurker who suddenly appeared in the mouth of the alley. Twice Methos's size the immortal monster raised his axe as he charged into the alley. Methos was all that stood between this berserker and his incapacitated friend. _Gods!?i&gt; The giant's presence buzzed of insanity. That was the nature of a lurker Methos thought grimly. _Is now my time? At least my quickening will slow this monster down — let Duncan escape.__

As the lurker bore down on Methos it appeared as though he was expected to step aside. He did not. Or maybe this giant wasn't capable of changing a plan once in progress. A plan. He needed — no time. Death? As the lurker neared, Methos suddenly dropped into a roll across the ground under the giant's axe arm, his Ivanhoe angled just so its arc carried the blade through the shoulder joint severing the arm and axe. Back on his feet Methos jumped into the air to reach his opponents neck. Blood flew everywhere; Methos tenacity and powerful backhand once again saving his life. It had been an all out jump so he found himself meeting the quickening with his back on the ground. He struggled to his feet, but seemed to be tangled up in something. _Oh gods_ the severed arm. Methos stomach rebelled just as the lightning struck him. _Oh gods._ He was choking.

....Rapid steps all around him, then someone poking him in the face.

"Come on, Adam, there are watchers all around us. They want us out of here."

"What?" He kept his eyes squeezed shut, the light show inside his head was still too intense.

"Adam!" Someone was shouting in his ear and rattling his teeth. Sounded like Duncan. _Damn boy scout won't let a dead man rest._

His head pounded with the crazy man's quickening, his throat was raw, mouth sour. All signs of life. So maybe he should open his eyes.

Methos looked up into a handsome scared face, _Kronos!_ He snapped his eyes back shut. _No._

Duncan's voice, "What's wrong, yew in pain? There's not a blade in yew some where is there?"

"Please, no — ." _Duncan, I know it's Duncan._

"Can you get to your feet?" MacLeod had him on his feet before he could answer and was dragging him out of the alley. Methos tried to participate in his own movement, feet scuffing along, not finding purchase, as MacLeod tugged him from the scene of the fight.

He dared another look: a crowd of peasants, dressed mostly in white linen, filled their wooden wheeled carts with the bodies of the losing combatants.

Methos blinked, "Who are all these people?"

MacLeod glanced around at Amy, Joe and several others he didn't recognize rapidly loading the dead immortals' bodies into a hearse. "Watchers — they didn't even wait for you to revive. I don't think they're afraid of you, Adam."

_Adam? Oh, yeah -- Adam._ Me. "Where are our horses?"

"What?"

Methos blinked at Connor's grinning face. Duncan's voice, "What's wrong?"

Methos squeezed his eyes shut. _It is Duncan. I'm just seeing...._

"Duncan, my head hurts."

Having dragged Methos away from the alley, MacLeod slowed the pace to take a look at his friend. "It was a bad one, wasn't it? I know you don't take quickenings easily. I'm sorry. But I thank you for saving me."

Methos's heart ached as he watched Richie's face give this speech. He closed his eyes again as the youngster guided him onto a bench at the edge of a small park. "I just need time."

MacLeod pulled a silver flask of whiskey that had belonged to Conner from his overcoat and pressed it into a shaking hand. "Drink up."

Methos dared another look, was thrilled to see Duncan's face, and his broke into a delighted smile. "Thank the Gods."

"Hey, you haven't tasted it yet. Who knows what's in there."

A shaky hand guided the questionable libation to his tongue. A tiny sip, his stomach heaved in protest.

MacLeod sighed, and patted ineffectually on his gagging friend's back. "Sorry."

Between wheezes he said,"OK. I'm OK. Just not ready for that. Whatever the hell that is."

MacLeod took a tentative sip, smiled, "Oh, my," as he took a larger swig. "That's good."

Methos growled and squinted at his young friend as he alternated between his own and Connor's face. "I need a beer."

"We're a long way from home, and more than a bit of a mess."

"There's the Black Hole. They won't notice a bit of blood in there. And it's owned by an American — they serve you at your table, so we can just sit."

"I don't know, Methos — ."

"Shhh — thought you said there were watchers all over," Methos warned.

"Sorry, Adam. Doc?"

"You owe me a beer."

"Yeah, I suppose I do." MacLeod pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, soaked it with Scotch, then rubbed at the splotches of drying blood on Methos's face.

"I can't believe you're doing that." But he sat still for the Highlander's ministrations, mesmerized by Rebecca's face. "I've lost my mind."

"I'll get yew a beer."

"Thank you." He smiled at Rebecca, glad she had Duncan's voice.

Chapter 3: THE BLACK HOLE

Methos kept his head down staring at the table top.

"Talk to me, old man."

It took him a few moments to respond. "I'm having visual hallucinations."

A brawny hand reached out and twisted Methos's face to look at him. "Who do you see?"

"I see you, Mac, but —."

MacLeod finished his thought, "Not all the time. Should I disarm you?"

"You could always try!"

"Calm down. Who are you seeing?"

"At first Kronos. Glimpses of Connor."

"I would prefer you concentrate on Connor."

Methos smiled. "He wants me to kick your butt."

"And Kronos?"

The smile died. "He wants you to stab me through the heart, of course."

"Of course. I'm not going to stab you, old man."

A waitress that had been approaching them changed direction, obviously disturbed by the snatch of conversation she'd overheard.

"Oops."

The waitress spoke to the bartender, and then he stomped to their table.

"What do you want?"

"Just a couple pints."

The bartender nodded, but gave MacLeod a look that said, "Don't cause trouble in my bar," and swept Methos with a, "Don't be a fool," glance as he walked away.

"I don't think he likes us, Mac."

"Well hold your head up — stop looking like I might smack you around at any time."

Methos tried to comply, stretching his long neck. "Ow! My back is out of place."

"I'm not surprised. What was that move with the roll across the paving?"

He shrugged. "I improvised."

"No." MacLeod shook his head. "Tell me the name of the move. When did you learn it?"

"I've forgotten — my body remembered it, but aches from it." Methos grimaced as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Must have done it wrong."

"I don't know, old man. Must have been right, we're both still alive."

"Three 'old mans' in less than ten minutes — maybe I'm going to have to smack 'yew' around."

At that moment the bartender set down their pints with just a whisper of a growl.

"Thank you." Methos smiled sweetly.

About half the pint made it down his throat before his stomach rebelled. They departed the premises rapidly, invited not to return.

It was pleasing that MacLeod retained his own face during most of the crawl back home.

Chapter 4: PORCELAIN GODDESS

Crouched in the small space between the toilet and door, Methos stared toward the sink, his mind elsewhere.

MacLeod eased into the room offering a cup of chamomile tea. "Maybe this will settle your stomach,"

The ancient shook his head. "Thanks, but I can't keep it down. Too damn old for this."

The Highlander studied the deceptively young face, noting the unfocused eyes, the tilted head. "What are you seeing?"

"The pit."

MacLeod's eyes opened wide with alarm. "What?"

"It's OK, Mac."

"What can I do to help?"

"Oh — turn back time about forty centuries."

"Were you happy then?"

Methos nodded. "I was a freeman — then something went wrong, and I ended up in a pit."

"What kind of a pit?"

The elder immortal regarded the younger as if he were a bit slow. "A pit in the ground."

"Oh."

"The type where it rains on you, and people throw things at you."

"How long?"

"A long time. I don't know."

"How did you get out?"

"Silas found me. Then the real fun started. Sometimes, sometimes I imagine I'm still in the pit living inside my head."

MacLeod set the cup on the sink counter and lowered himself to the floor, gathering his friend, with some resistance, to him. "You're not in a pit." He sighed, slipped into the brogue, "But yew're like hugging a log." Stiff and uncomfortable, Methos kept his face turned so that MacLeod could not see his tears.

They both started at the sound of the front door opening, but soon recognized Joe Dawson's distinctive steps. MacLeod loosened his grip, but instead of retreating Methos crumbled lower, his head on Duncan's lap, and gave way on trying to hide his crying. The Highlander patted his friend's back.

Joe eased into the bathroom, took in the sight, shook his head. "You all have been busy tonight."

With a nod MacLeod explained, "Too busy. Just having a senior century here."

"Well one of you smells like hell."

"That would be me." Methos groaned.

"He's been praying to the porcelain goddess."

"She never does answer, does she, buddy. Bad quickening?"

Methos finally sat up. "Yeah. He was a — a magical thinker."

"A nut case, huh?"

"I believe that's what I said."

Joe turned back toward the kitchen. "Well, let's see if I can come up with something to sooth an immortal stomach."

MacLeod cleared his throat. "I think you're ready for a bath." Without waiting for Methos' opinion, he busied himself running water into the bathtub, and hunting down a change of clothing. Through half lidded eyes the ancient kept watching the suddenly bustling man for any signs of face changing. The visual hallucinations seemed to have lessened, but the feeling of mental frailty remained. _I am an ancient man today._

Joe returned with, of all things, a beer. Methos burst out laughing.

"Joe!" Mac protested.

"Ahhh, a drink bearer. My, this is better than having a sword bearer."

"We already tried beer at the Black Hole. We were thrown out after he spewed his pint everywhere."

"You were thrown out of the Black Hole, wow."

"Never eat curry before taking a quickening, Joe," Methos informed with a chuckle. After a few moments consideration he suggested, "Joe would never throw us out, we should buy him an establishment here in London. Yea Olde Blues Bar?"

"I don't know, Adam, maybe what I need is to open an old immortals home."

"Very funny, Joe, but not original. You've been talking to Amanda."

"Yeah, she said you're getting to be a hermit."

"When was this?" MacLeod asked.

"Before — you came to stay. She was just miffed because I wouldn't help with one of her schemes. By gods, after tonight even Amy won't think I'm a hermit."

Joe shook his head. "Never should have told you what she said."

MacLeod asked "what" by raising a brow.

"Amy told Joe that watching me was as exciting as watching paint dry."

"Nothing wrong with that. I'd go for a little more of the quiet life. It's not your job to entertain her." Methos watched the surreal flicker of Kronos across MacLeod's face as he spoke.

Methos sighed. "Time to go trekking."

"You think?"

"Yeah. Need to get up there where the oxygen is thin, kill off a few of these noisy brain cells."

"How's the picture show in your head?"

"Easing. I wonder if that's how it was in that lurkers head all the time. Joe, what was his name?

"John."

"Just John?"

"John of London. Unknown origin. Been here about three years; always going after immortals who've just taken a quickening. Generally those who ran lived, and those who crossed blades with him died. You being the exception."

"Actually, I don't believe we did cross blades. A guy that big — better to get 'im off the playing field."

"You were going to tell me the name of that move — the roll under his sword arm," Duncan reminded him.

"No. I told you I don't remember."

Joe asked, "And what do you mean you didn't cross swords?"

"Why don't we carry out this inquisition tomorrow when I'm rested?"

"Oh, because you're out of it enough you might tell us the truth?"

A growling noise from his throat was Methos' only verbal response. Unfolding with effort he rose to his feet and began undressing, scattering his bathroom audience.

The bath was good. _Too old, too old for this._ He thought about trekking in the Himalayas, finding some tranquility to heal his rowdy mind, maybe even settle the baby dreams. _Yeah, it's time._

Chapter 5: THROUGH A NEW DOOR

MacLeod stood in the doorway of Methos' bedroom watching him sleep. Three hours ago he took a quickening and his body was still edgy from being ignored while he cared for his friend. _His best friend._ He cleared his throat, not consciously realizing that he was demanding attention from the sleeping man. _What would it be like to touch him? My dear friend. Damn, our mountain of turmoil._

Methos twitched about, opened an eye, "Hmm?"

"Sorry. Just looking in on you. Go back to sleep."

"OK."

MacLeod just stood there watching his friend try to sleep.

Finally, "Are you OK, Mac?"

"I — . " he couldn't find the words.

"Come here, Mac. What's wrong?"

MacLeod took a few steps into the room. "Guess it's all just catching up with me."

"Sit down." Methos patted the edge of his bed. "You guys were so busy taking care of this old sot that we didn't ask you how your own quickening had settled. How goes it?"

MacLeod smiled as he sat near Methos' shoulder. "Oh, no one is wearing the wrong face if that's what you mean." Without thinking MacLeod rested his hand on Methos' arm, his fingers gently caressing. When he realized what he was doing he dropped his hand to the mattress, looking embarrassed.

But now Methos was very awake. "Glad to hear it." _At last!_ With a warm smile, and a pounding heart he covered his friend's hand with his own.

"I just — . " he faltered, then reached out and touched Methos' face.

Methos sighed. "Have we arrived there finally?"

MacLeod blinked, then smiled. "Arrived? Maybe. Of course, some of our friends might accuse me of taking advantage of your depleted state." MacLeod laughed nervously.

"And some of our friends would say it's about time."

"Amanda?"

"I don't know about Amanda, but Gina thought I must have it bad for you, for letting you talk me into that fool scheme with Robert."

"Well Amanda has mentioned a couple times that both of us must like pain the way we keep torturing ourselves. I told her that we've never actually spoken about how we felt." MacLeod leaned down toward Methos.

"Let me guess. She rolled her eyes and muttered about the stupidity of men."

"Aye." MacLeod reached out and placed a shaking hand on Methos' chest. "I want to touch yew."

Methos brushed the younger man's cheek with his finger tips. "Please do."

"I'm rather beyond — I won't — last."

"Lie beside me. Neither of us are up to anything very complicated just now."

MacLeod removed his clothing rapidly, and climbed under the covers while Methos shed his boxers, then they turned face to face. "Yes." They were still at first, just getting used to the sensation. One of them whimpered, the other chuckled, and then their lips met, both stopped breathing, and thinking. Sweet and tender at first, the taste of tooth paste over whiskey, then more urgent and demanding. Clutching at forearms and shoulders they thrust together their cocks and tongues. Perhaps also a heart or two.

MacLeod came first having arrived at the scene of the bed already on fire. Dousing both of their bellies in his essence, he slowed and decided Methos needed encouragement. MacLeod began kissing his way down Methos' chest and belly.

"Mac! Where are you going?"

A lascivious grin spread across the Highlander's face as he looked up into the ancient's alarmed features, just inches from his goal. "Surely a man who was a doctor for centuries has a better grasp of anatomy than that." His goal reached, he caused his new lover to howl.

"Duncan! I can't ! — aah! — I can't!"

But apparently he could.

CHAPTER 5.5: PERCHANCE TO DREAM

Methos swam mile after mile toward a distant shore. The cold inlet water, an iridescent blue, the steep fir and cedar covered slopes plunging down to a narrow strip of sand. Exhausted muscles screamed with a final effort of dragging himself onto the sand. He rolled onto his back and looked up into the carved totems on a huge cedar. The totem relayed a Bear clan triumph. He hauled his aching body to its feet and stumbled toward the crying totem. _Crying?_ At the base of the totem leaned a cradle board with a lusty lunged baby sharing it's indignity with the world.

Methos woke with a hot body plastered to him. _My word, what have we done?_

"Is my name mud?" MacLeod asked, head still tucked against Methos, his breath warm.

_He's afraid!_

"Not unless you want it to be." He tugged MacLeod's hair, bringing his face into view. "Did you figure I'd wake up feeling you'd taken advantage?"

"Thought did cross."

"Silly boy." He placed a kiss on the shaggy forehead. "But I was serious about needing to get away. The noise level in my head is atrocious. Now don't look at me like that, I'm just —."

"Take me."

"Mac, I — ."

"You promised. Remember that day we were playing chess and you said that the next time you hied off to Tibet you'd take me. That's where you're heading, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Actually we go to Nepal — then walk to my friend's village. It's very small. It won't be fun. It will be cold constantly, and there won't be any beer."

"Fine. I'll take my flask."

Methos sighed. "First though we take a side trip to Seacouver."

"Seacouver?"

"Yeah, it's a good place to outfit for a trek. And there's a little chore I'd forgotten about. Shouldn't take long."

"And you just thought if it now?"

"Yeah. Feeling guilty I suppose. There's a pre-immortal north of Seacouver I need to look in on, be sure she's behaving herself."

"Uh-huh." MacLeod nodded, but his eyes showed doubt, and a touch of pity that rankled. "So you've decided to take up feeling guilty again. Hmm."

"One of us needs to."

"Oh yeah?" MacLeod held his friend by the rib cage, threatening to tickle him.

"Don't you dare! Augh! Stop — stop!" Methos wrestled for MacLeod's wrists and managed to jerk them up over his head, pressing down with his weight to keep him immobilized. Although very close in height, MacLeod had the advantage in mass. Methos' struggle to maintain his advantage produced a wicked grin from MacLeod who bucked his body a couple times flinging Methos into the air, demonstrating the precariousness of his position.

"Oooh, I'm at your mercy!" The Highlander mocked without shame, then neatly flipped their positions. Instead of submitting, as he was supposed to do, Methos kept the momentum going and flipped them onto the floor landing on top of MacLeod and knocking the air out of him. MacLeod gasped for air with a noise between a cry and a laugh. Methos rolled off the sputtering Scot and watched him with fondness, their eyes saying all the words necessary.

With an impish grin Methos asked, "We're not going to wrestle for position every time, are we?"

MacLeod laughed and replied with a leer, "But of course, unless you would prefer a schedule. Say Monday, Wednesday, Friday I top; while Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday you bottom — Sunday we play by ear."

"I see a disturbing pattern, MacLeod." But he leaned over the younger man and kissed him. "Do we know what we are doing?"

"Me, no, but hey you're five thousand years old, if you don't know how to go about it — ."

Methos frowned, but without rancor. "You know what I mean."

"Then I guess the answer is still no. Methos, we won't know unless we give it a try. I want to try. And I want to feel you inside me."

Methos cleared his throat. "OK."

"Are you alright?" He studied the face of his friend, suspecting shock.

"Yeah. Maybe we should have some breakfast."

"I've scared yew."

"No, I'm just hungry. Damn! I just remembered I didn't clean my sword last night, good grief, I am losing it."

"I cleaned it. But you do want to look at it. John of London was wearing chain mail."

Chapter 6: CHICKS VERSUS CHAIN MAIL

Examining the old blade with a hand lens, Methos cursed in an even older language. "Nothing to it, but we'll have to start our trek in Yorkshire."

"Yorkshire?"

"Have you ever heard of the immortal J. Todd-Boyd?"

"The sword smith? Yeah. She's supposed to be good with a blade. Fitz knew her."

"She was my student. I need to have her take a power grindstone to this old friend."

"I could do it."

"No, Mac. It's kind of a warranty thing."

It seemed to take longer to wind their way out of London than the rest of the drive north. They took A10 to King's Lynn then stuck to the coast, adding considerable time, but a fantastic view. Methos let MacLeod do the driving of his latest Volvo. Reality floated by as he gazed past MacLeod at the North Sea, his mind rowdy as the waves.

"Mac, Jen doesn't know I'm Methos."

"J. Stands for Jen or Jennifer?"

"Actually she may know. I think a very old friend — the one in Tibet we're going to see — may have told her. Jen's never said anything, but I left her with Ama for over fifty years, I can't imagine it not having been discussed. But we don't talk about it."

"OK. Do you think that she knows that you know that she knows?"

"Shut up, MacLeod. Don't you think farmers aught to keep the hedgerows short enough not to block the view?"

"Keeps the sheep in, old man. What do you want me to call you in front of Jen?"

"Adam or Doc will do."

A fair day to drive, the sun popped out occasionally, and the hum of the car's engine nearly covered the buzz in Methos' head.

He called to warn J. Todd-Boyd they were on their way half way through Lincolnshire from his car phone.

"She says she'll put on some soup for us. Do you want to replace the cell phones we killed last night, or go on our trek incognito?"

"Hmm. Replace I think. If we don't, we are liable to regret it. Besides, if we keep in touch with Joe maybe the watchers will ease off on us enough that we won't always be tripping over them. Though I admit it was nice having them around last night. They took care of the scene, so I was able to drag you away. There must have been a half a dozen of them."

"They probably had a team on John of London. Dangerous and unpredictable. Why didn't you tell me you were being hunted by — what was his name?"

"I don't remember. And what could you have done about it any way?"

"Didn't want to hear me lecture you, eh?" MacLeod laughed in reply.

They arrived at Jen's farm north of Scarborough in time for a late lunch.

Methos watched with some concern as Jen and MacLeod sized each other up as opponents, as always happens when immortals meet for the first time. Jen was an average height for a modern woman, though eight centuries ago when she was young she towered over many men. There was obviously a bit of Viking thrown in with her Saxon ancestors. Powerfully built, she moved with swift efficiency. Fortunately she had a ready sense of humor too. It was a trait that tended to turn MacLeod's leeriness into enthusiasm for discovering a new friend. In less than five minutes they were sharing funny stories about Fitz.

Over bowls of lamb soup at Jen's kitchen table she told the story of how she first met Hugh Fitzcairn.

"Seems he was in need of a new sword, but short of funds. He offered me his _services_."

"Services?" MacLeod pretended not to understand.

Jen laughed quietly and looked a bit lost in memories. "I miss him. We were about the same age."

"Aye. I miss him too."

"I'm glad you stopped Kalas. Doc told me about having to take a dive into the Seine with him." Her unspoken thanks to MacLeod for getting between Kalas and her teacher was felt.

"Of course Doc wouldn't let me fight him right off. Had to interfere and send him off to prison first."

"Some of his crimes were against mortals," Methos protested.

"He interferes with your fights too?" Jen asked with a big grin.

"Once in awhile. Let's see: a shot in the back, a fire bomb, calling the police — that sort of thing. But heaven forbid if I should interfere."

"That's different! I'm older and know what's best for you."

They ignored him. Jen told MacLeod, "The damnedest thing is he can still interfere even if I haven't actually seen him for decades. Just that voice of his in the back of my head asking what the hell am I doing?"

"Then I did my job right, didn't I?" Methos snarled, producing warm laughter from the younger immortals.

After lunch they walked to Jen's airy stone shop where her forge and smithy tools were located. The walls were festooned with battered old swords and armor. Nothing like a museum, more of a memorial. These weapons had been used hard, and abandoned reluctantly, most in extremity. MacLeod immediately set out to appraise each item, calling out an occasional question.

Jen and Methos walked to her main work table, a massive slab of oak, where he drew his old Ivanhoe and laid it down for her to look over. Jen propped herself on a three legged stool to examine the fine old blade with a hand lens, often shaking her head.

"This should not have happened. You said this lurker was wearing mail — made of what?" Methos only shrugged. "Probably some new alloy, damn. Maybe it's time for a new sword," Jen suggested.

"Can't you fix it?" Methos stuck out his lower lip.

"Don't do that. I can fix it. It's just that I don't want you carrying a weakened blade. I have several beauties you could try."

"Do what you can. I'll think on it."

Jen took Methos to the drawers holding her newest swords. For the next half hour the oldest immortal hefted, swung and otherwise played with each of the new swords, while Jen carefully repaired the thirteenth century Ivanhoe.

Satisfied, and after a quick polish, she presented it to him for his inspection. "Not as good as new, but close. Did you find one you think you need? Take one for awhile and try packing it, if you like."

"Don't they all have buyers waiting for them?"

"No one as important as you."

"Now stop that, my head will swell."

"That's fine, so long as you keep it attached to your neck."

MacLeod who had just joined them laughed and suggested, "You have your teacher's sense of humor."

Chapter 7: ROUND TWO TO MACLEOD

That night MacLeod and Methos shared the guest room in Jen's attic. Long and open, with a pitched ceiling, the room was warm and comfortable. Old Moorish rugs, several modern futons and a dozen boxes of books filled the room.

MacLeod sat down behind Methos, legs folded semi-lotus, on a futon. He murmured into his friend's ear, "There is no quickening driving us this time." And began rubbing out the knots in Methos' neck and shoulders. "You're very tense."

"Yeah."

After a long pause, "And chatty."

"Sorry. I — ." he faltered.

"Shush. Too much thinking. Definitely need to get you up where the air is thin."

After a deep sigh Methos replied, "Yes. In the mean time I'll let you do the thinking. But don't do anything stupid."

"OK. I'll try and not to do anything you wouldn't."

"No. I said 'nothing stupid.'"

MacLeod tugged off Methos' Henley then trailed kisses up his shoulder and neck, nipped an ear lobe. "How's the noise level in your head now?"

"Amazingly calm." Methos turned his head to meet MacLeod's lips. The kiss was a gentle salvo. "We need to be quiet."

"I have an idea about that." A lusty grin spread across his face as he continued to help Methos out of his clothing.

"How is it that I'm naked, and you're still fully dressed?" Methos asked.

"Because you weren't paying clothes attention?"

He made a rude noise. "You'll never get into the punsters' union, Mac."

"Oh dear. I am heart broken." With that and a smirk he quickly shed his clothing and tumbled his lover onto the futon in such a way that both their mouths would be busy and quiet.

_Bright boy._

There were too many dreams that night running through Methos' head. The only vision he could hang onto was Rachel MacLeod telling him something. Her mouth was moving, but he heard only silence. Reading her lips he was sure he caught the word "baby."

Chapter 8: THE HIGH ROAD

Having promised to visit more often, the Highlander and Doc departed Jen's farm, shortly after nine in the morning, with a bag of sandwiches she made them. Her teacher mentioned that the road from London ran both ways as they waved good-bye.

As MacLeod eased the Volvo down the farm's gravel driveway Methos suggested, "Why don't we drive on up to Scotland, we could be there in a couple hours."

He shook his head, but said, "OK," paused for a moment then asked, "Do you do this a lot? Wander aimlessly?"

"Don't you?"

"When I was a kid."

With a burst of laughter Methos sputtered, "When you were a kid! Mac you're still a kid by immortal reckoning."

Duncan frowned and tapped on the steering wheel, glanced at the older immortal through narrowed eyes, then grinned. "Some of us have been known to grow up after a couple hundred years."

"Meaning I haven't. Perhaps you're right. Or maybe I'm in my second childhood."

"More like your hundredth."

Methos chuckled. "It's only fair, I don't remember my first childhood."

"How does that happen? Slowly over years, or one day it's just gone?"

"Probably the former. Once in awhile an old memory will flash into my head, and I think, yeah I remember that! Then it's gone."

"Is there anything that tends to trigger the memories?"

"You mean like rainy days, baking bread, a baby's cry, a wolf's howl — stuff like that?"

"Yeah."

"Nope."

"I knew you were going to say that."

"You're a good straight man, Mac."

"Nice to be useful for something. Alright old man, why are we heading north instead of back to London?"

"To see Rachael, of course."

MacLeod nodded. "Of course." He sighed.

With the passing of miles the hedgerows gave way to stone fences, and the heath and heather became more prevalent than the oak and fir. They kept to the coastal roads devouring the view of the North Sea, and eventually pulled over near Dunbar to eat their sandwiches. After lunch Methos drove, following the Firth of Forth to Edinburgh, then angled north and west toward the A82 and Fort Williams. The mountains progressively became more rugged and barren of trees. Awesome. Fort Williams wrapped around the bank of Loch Linnhe. There they checked into a hotel with an unencumbered view of the Loch.

"What do you want to eat?"

"Beer, and whatever." They strolled by the pubs and tourist shops that were selling beer, whiskey, wool plaids, and ceramic Highlanders with Mel Gibson faces. They settled on the Grog and Gruel for beer and shepherd's pie.

"Well, shall we call Rachael tonight and warn her, or just drop in on her tomorrow?" MacLeod asked.

"Surprise is good. We need to checkout this new husband again, be sure we still approve of him."

"Man you'd make a pain of a father-in-law wouldn't you?"

Methos smiled into his beer. "I've had my moments."

After a good pub meal they bought a bottle of expensive whiskey at a tourist shop, then found their way back to their hotel.

"Ah, the scary night. The third night together. The night we have to stop and wonder, maybe even talk about what we're doing."

MacLeod asked, "Have I told you lately that you think too much?"

"I believe so. Are you going to open that bottle or what?"

MacLeod smiled at the most intriguing person he'd ever known. They were sitting across from each other at their small hotel room table. The view of the Loch had disappeared with nightfall, tightening their attention to each other. MacLeod unwrapped the foil and pulled the cork from the old Scotch, then poured three fingers worth into hotel room glasses.

Methos kept his eyes down the majority of the time, but glanced occasionally up into MacLeod's steady gaze.

"How can you be so calm?" Methos demanded to know.

MacLeod shook his head. "Why, after fifty centuries, would a simple Highland barbarian make you nervous?"

"It's not you. It's us."

"So it is, old man. So it is. Please — just — no panicking. Let's take it one day at a time."

"I guess there is no other real choice."

They toasted, MacLeod proclaimed, "To old fashioned Scotch lubrication!"

Methos choked briefly and glared at MacLeod, but it morphed into a grin. He made the next toast, "Less thinking."

"There you go."

After the third toast MacLeod leaned across the table and tasted his friend's lips, then asked, "Yew remember two nights ago, after the quickenings, yew said we weren't ready for anything complicated?"

"I said that?"

"Yes yew did. Maybe not those exact words. Do yew feel up to something a bit more complicated tonight?"

"Complicated can be good."

"Good." MacLeod handed him a small vial of massage oil. The label claimed it to be heather scented.

"Does heather really have much of an odor?"

"Are yew going to start babbling?"

"Thought I might." MacLeod shut him up with another kiss. Methos tugged them to their feet, stumbling around the small table, laughing, shedding clothing, and toppling onto the bed. At last higher brain functions stopped.

Chapter 9: SURPRISE NUMBER NINE, #9, #9...

Old Inverlochy Castle is but a shell of stone with earth reclaiming much of the walls. "It's been a ruin as long as I can remember." MacLeod noted as they strolled into the grassy center of the stone skeleton of the castle, now a park in Fort Williams.

"I see they're trying to resurrect the old girl."

"You know, it would be nice if you told me what was rattling around in that old brain of yours, before we head over to Glenfinnan."

"I — I'm chasing a dream. Don't give me that look."

"You are the most pragmatic man I know."

"And I don't usually put any stock into dreams. But once in a millennium, or so, I'll have a series of vivid dreams that I can not possibly ignore."

"How often do you find what you're looking for?"

Methos' face fell blank. "There's always a first time."

MacLeod narrowed his eyes. _Would he know the truth if it slapped him upside the head?_

"Stop glaring at me Highlander. I'm running as fast as I can."

"Well stop for a minute and tell me what's driving you."

"Life."

"You are impossible."

MacLeod brooded as he drove them around Loch Linnhe toward Loch Shiel and Glenfinnan. They pulled over to view the Highlander monument, which finally dispelled MacLeod's irritation. The mist rose over the water and two red stags lay near the shoreline.

MacLeod flashed his year round pass to the monument volunteer, then scrambled up the narrow winding staircase inside the monument. Methos chose to seat himself on the loch shore contemplating the breath taking view. _What's driving you, old man?_

They arrived at Rachael's pub midmorning, rather pleased with themselves about surprising her. MacLeod briefly touched his father's five hundred year old sword, which was displayed on a wall in the public house. Then he saw Rachael's assistant. "Mrs. Rose, how are you?"

"More than fine. Oh dear, I bet yew're wanting to see Rachael. She and George have gone to Glasgow."

"When will they be back?"

"I guess it depends on the tests. See they're expecting a wee one, and her doctor wanted to have something checked out that he was concerned about at a hospital in Glasgow."

"When is the baby due?" Methos asked with concern and hidden excitement.

"In the fall I believe, though babes have their own time schedules."

"Thank you, Mrs. Rose." MacLeod sighed. "So much for surprising Rachael. You think we could bother you for a late breakfast or an early lunch?"

"Whichever you like, lads."

They sat at a battered old table with a good view of Ian MacLeod's broadsword. "Well, I guess this is a dead end to your chase."

Methos gave his friend a Monalisaesque smile. "We are doing fine Mac. Next stop of the journey is Seacouver."

"Want to take in Tioram before we head back South?"

"That's a terrible road, and you can't go inside the castle anymore. They have the entrance boarded off so that no one gets coshed by a falling wall."

"Oh come on, it's not a bad road."

"Just narrow and winding, with many blind corners. Would be fine on a horse, but in a car it's suicidal."

"How old were you the first time you saw a paved road?"

"I'll have you know I came from a very civilized part of the world."

"Where?" Methos glared. MacLeod gloated, fully aware that the oldest immortal had no idea where he came from.

"Come on, Methos, it's not like we're on a time schedule."

"Yes we are, we have to be back before autumn."

MacLeod lifted a brow at that, but decided to let it pass. "Fine, so we blow a day at Tioram." It was obvious that Methos was arguing for the sake of arguing, a trait of the old immortal's that wasn't bothering MacLeod today.

So they followed the winding, often one lane, road to Tioram Castle. Once there they waded across the salt water and sand strip to the rock outcrop where the small ruin stood. MacLeod had purchased a disposable camera and was delighted when Methos stood still for a picture in front of the castle ruin.

"Can you imagine standing watch out to sea from one of those walls?"

"Actually I can. And a cold miserable time was had — no not here — but places like this." Methos replied. "You didn't miss anything. Your father's humble abode was likely a great deal more cozy than Tioram, perched there in the wind."

"Aye, but I fantasized about it as a boy. Later I wondered where I came from — if some ship — . Who brought me to Mary and Ian MacLeod?"

"The circle of midwives who fill empty cradles with babes born on the wrong side of the blanket."

"Is that all we are — just special bastards?"

"A bit more perhaps. Special, truly strange, bastards."

"Aye."

On their way back out the narrow road they stopped to assist Methos' watcher, Amy Thomas. Her small car was trapped with a wheel in the ditch where she had pulled over to allow an on-coming vehicle to pass. After the two immortals finished lifting and freeing the small car Methos did a bit of lecturing. "This is not an off-road vehicle, my dear. You know of course, Amy, that I will tease you about this for the rest of your life."

"That's fine, just tell me you're returning to the peaceful life soon."

The smile he gave her was so wide and full of delight it was scary. "Do you have good hiking boots?" he asked. Her groan of dismay increased his delight. "This side trip was really a good idea, glad I thought of it."

"I had to twist — !" MacLeod started to protest, but realized he was being tweaked and laughed. "You know, Amy, he's more like watching paint blister and peel than dry."

Amy frowned. "Joe talks too much."

Methos adopted his most patronizing tone to request, "Why don't you follow us closer going south." Amy made a noise deep in her throat, almost a growl, but followed her irritating immortal closely on their trip back to London.

Chapter 10: WE FLY

It took almost a week for them to be organized well enough to fly to Seacouver. Now-a-days the paper work to take a sword on an airplane, even safely checked as luggage, was horrendous.

MacLeod and Joe Dawson sat with him around Methos' dinning table in London the night before their flight out, triple checking the details.

"Once we head for Nepal we won't have to go through all this again. I have backpacking swords at my house in Kathmandu that we can carry. You ever been to Kathmandu, Joe?"

"Only in my imagination."

"You should come and stay at my house while we trek."

"Actually I figured to stay in Seacouver. Let someone younger record this journey."

"On come on, Joseph, you need to come smell the air in Nepal at least once," Methos coaxed his long time friend.

"I'll think on it."

"You weren't planning on having Amy follow him were you?" MacLeod asked.

"I can hardly tell her no. She's worked hard to make up for her mistake with Walker. What kind of a vote of confidence would it be if I pulled her off his trail now? She's the only one who's been able to keep track of him, or at least the only one he will put up with." Dawson gave the immortal whom once was a watcher a knowing smile.

"I wonder if Amy wants to follow us?"

"Who wouldn't want to go to Nepal," slipped passed Joe's lips before he realized.

"Ah-hah! You do want to go, don't you."

"Maybe. It's a lot of hours on an airplane." Joe knocked on one of his prosthetics.

"We'll be there to badger — er — help you Dawson." MacLeod gave his watcher his best innocent grin.

The polar flight from Heathrow to Sea-Tac shortened the journey by several hours, still they were exhausted when they landed. Thanks to their careful planning customs went smoothly. They grabbed a shuttle bus to the car rental place, then a quick Starbucks break, before they drove north. Seattle traffic slowed them, but still they made it to Seacouver before dark.

They dropped the worn and stiff watcher at "Joe's" where he still had a room above his bar, before proceeding to MacLeod's dojo.

For all of MacLeod and Methos' careful planning they were surprised when they found that the electricity at the dojo was out.

"It's supposed to be paid automatically every month, so something else must be wrong," MacLeod said as he fiddled with the fuse box.

"Normally I would enjoy watching you play with electricity, but just now I'm spent, why don't we find a hotel?"

"We really don't need electricity just to sleep."

"True, but a hot shower would be nice," Methos grumbled.

At that moment MacLeod's new cell phone rang. It was Joe. "Hey Mac, I have a note here from Anne. Something about the electric company and the dojo."

"Yeah, we're in the dark here."

"You're welcome to come over, though there's not much extra space."

"Thanks, Joe. I'll see how badly Adam has to have that shower."

After a bit of finagling, exhaustion won out over travel grime. Tomorrow would be early enough to contact Anne.

Chapter 11: THE OLD MAN COMES FORTH

MacLeod woke early enough to phone his former lover before she left for work at the hospital. Anne explained the banking/billing snafu then invited him to dinner. MacLeod mentioned that he had a house guest. "Adam helped me paint your house. I think you'd like him. He was a doctor for several life times."

"Ahh. Is this the Adam that Amanda annotates as 'the old man'?"

"That would be the one."

"Then you'd better bring him too."

"OK. I'm sure he has some great stories about leaches and bloodletting." As MacLeod disconnected from his call he turned to enjoy Methos' response.

"I'm ignoring you Highlander."

"I got us a dinner invitation."

"You will be circumspect won't you?"

"If that's the way you want to play it. I'm not shy about telling Anne about us." MacLeod's grin looked like a kid's with a new toy.

"The world is your oyster, isn't it, Mac?"

"And I shall devour it at my leisure."

"Well, first let's get the electricity fixed so I can take a shower."

"When did you become such a soft decadent creature?"

"I believe it was just a half dozen centuries after the next to the last time Kronos killed me."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"I do not understand the way your mind works."

"Neither did Kronos."

"Kronos again. Why the hell are you going on about Kronos?"

"You're the one who said I was soft."

"Sorry, I do not ken yew."

"Kronos accused me of going soft after the last time he killed me. That was here in Seacouver. Outside my apartment."

"Oh, sorry. We still haven't talked about that. Do we need to?"

"I think it can wait till we're trekking. A conversation best had while lying under the stars. Of course if I had any sense at all I wouldn't have brought it up. Not only soft, but senile."

"Not senile — or soft, for that matter — just a bit worn around the edges."

"Your mother raised a polite lad. Unwashed, but polite."

"Alright, already. We'll get the power turned on today, even if I have to bribe someone."

They were more than ready for a leisurely meal at Anne's home that evening after a day spent slaying the dragons of the power company bureaucracy.

Adam sat very quietly nodding and smiling in all the proper places as Anne, little Mary and MacLeod happily chatted while devouring a spaghetti and green salad dinner. Anne talked about how crowded the hospital was becoming. MacLeod spoke of their recent trip to Yorkshire and Scotland, leaving out the beheadings that lead to the trip. Adam, when questioned directly, mentioned they were preparing for a sojourn in Nepal. And Mary excitedly explained her first grade science project, and invited Uncle Duncan to come view it in the garage at the end of the meal. Adam offered to help Anne clear the table and load the dish washer, while MacLeod and Mary dashed off to admire her school project.

Anne turned to Adam and asked, "So you came all this way to Seacouver to outfit for a trek in the Himalayas?"

"Actually I believe I came to Seacouver to meet you."

"Aren't you the charmer."

"No. That would be Mac. I'm serious, Anne, I — I'm looking for an infant. One that will be immortal someday."

"Duncan doesn't know this, does he?"

"Clever lady."

"Not really. He leaves the room and you finally open up. You were doing a fine impression of a quiet mouse. Not at all the man Amanda described."

"You two shouldn't be allowed to get together. Too dangerous an alliance."

After a moment of thought, "I tried to disentangle myself from immortals for Mary's safety, but somehow it hasn't taken."

"That's how it is for some people. And I don't think you can help it. In fact, I think soon (before this autumn) an abandoned baby will find its way into your ER. Please call me when it happens."

"But don't tell Duncan."

"Maybe by then I will have told him myself. It's just that he's thinking I'm a bit senile lately."

"How old are you Adam?"

"Well, I have a hard time finding anyone I can call 'old man'."

"So, 'old man,' what do you plan to do with this baby?"

"Take it to its mother."

"Meaning the mother that will raise it, not the birth mother."

"Yes."

"How do you know all this?"

"This is the part where I figure MacLeod would think I was senile, if I talk about it."  
"And you think I'd feel the same way." Adam nodded. "Why do you care what I think?"

"Because you have a part to play in this tangled dream."

"Dream? You dreamed this?"

"Yeah. Want to lock me in a padded room?"

"No. I've seen enough weirdness involving immortals that I don't expect your lives to always conform to my science."

"It's just that we can't see all the pieces of the puzzle yet. Someday, someday we will find the explanations. When I was young I thought the world was flat. Wait long enough you can find the truth — usually right in front of you."

"I hope it's in my lifetime. I worry about the birth mothers of immortals." Adam nodded, a sad weariness settled on his face. "How do I get a hold of you? According to Amanda you can disappear at a moments notice."

"How did I end up being the topic of your conversation!"

"Oh don't worry, I'm sure she only told me the truth."

"Humph! Women."

"What did you say?"

"My email address is heartless@palehorse.org."

Mary and MacLeod returned to the kitchen at that point, ending Adam and Anne's conversation, but Dr. Lindsey gave the old immortal a nod of assurance.

It could be recorded as a very pleasant evening. MacLeod made a point of touching Adam on the shoulder or directing him by the elbow so that Anne would perceive the nature of their friendship, but without being overly demonstrative. Each time Methos would frown terribly. And Anne tried not to laugh.

That night, back at the dojo, they argued about the touching.

"You know how dangerous this is if it becomes common knowledge!"

"I just wanted Anne to know."

"A head hunter would be delighted to use one of us as hostage to get the other's head."

"Yes. I. Know. That. It was just so Anne would understand. And besides, now neither of us will have to explain it to Amanda, because Anne will."

"Oh. Damn! You are a clever young fellow."

"Let me show you just how clever." He grabbed his thin friend and hauled him up close.

"I'm still irritated with you."

"Of course you are. Now that I've explained our relationship to the majority of our friends in one evening — or it will be by the time Amanda gets through — you get to explain it to Joe."

"Joe knows."

"No he doesn't."

"What do you want to bet?" Methos kissed the Highlander before he could reply. They began easing toward the bed, still entwined. MacLeod ruthlessly knocked Methos off his feet onto the mattress. Landing in a crush, Methos happily cursed the Scot in an ancient dialect known for its blunt metaphors.

Chapter 12: THE TALE

It was a rare mostly sunny day in Seacouver. MacLeod and Methos tramped down Hobson Street debating the merits of natural versus synthetic fibers in camping gear. Whenever MacLeod started to capitulate a point, Methos would switch positions to keep the argument going. A pleasant way to power shop, at least by Methos' way of thinking.

They stopped at a Japanese noodle bar with a view of the bay to eat lunch, and check their gear list. "We're more than half way through, though I've thought of a couple items to add. We should be ready to leave soon. I can buy tickets while you check on your pre-immortal."

"What?" Methos' blank expression told the tale of a tale.

"Remember, we came to Seacouver to outfit — which we could have done perfectly well in London — because you needed to check on a pre-immortal to see if she's 'behaving herself' end quote."

"Must be bloody marvelous to have such a vibrant young memory." MacLeod remained silent staring at the eldest of their kind. Methos squirmed while rolling noodles around and around and around his chopsticks.

"It's not like you didn't know I was lying at the time."

"Is the truth so hard?"

"No. Just too revealing."

"Well that's honest at least."

"I told you in Scotland that I was chasing a dream. Still am."

"I figured that out, but you haven't told me what kind of dream."

Methos remained silent. Minutes ticked by, MacLeod narrowed his eyes. "And you don't plan on telling me."

"Bright boy. Wait until I get you out in the wilds of Tibet, at my mercy, where you can't escape me, then I'll tell you." Methos tried for his most mysterious and dangerous facial expression, but his heart wasn't in it quite enough to succeed.

"You're daft, old man."

"So I am, but not stupid."

After lunch they spent some time ambling in a park near the bay, watching the sail boats dancing around the freighters, before they walked back to the shopping district. They managed to finish hunting down the best gear for their trip, about the time the sun went down.

The evening was spent at Joe's bar, twisting Joe's arm about going with them as far as Kathmandu. He kept coming up with one weak excuse after another, even after he admitted that Amy really didn't want the trekking gig.

"I just got to Seacouver, guys, I've been away for months. The bar needs me."

"That so, Mike?" MacLeod called over to Joe's bar manager, working near-by.

"Nope. Sorry, Joe, but we're doing fine. Go to Nepal."

Mac said, "Who knows, Joe, you might run into some old hippies you knew thirty years ago."

"I was a marine, not a hippie."

"Well that has possibilities too," Methos suggested.

Finally MacLeod laid a ticket on the bar in front of Joe. "First class, open return date."

"Om Mani Padme Hum," Methos quietly spoke the mantra.

Chapter 13: WHAT I REALLY REALLY WANTA DO

From London to Seattle had been a piece of cake compared to air travel from Vancouver to Nepal. MacLeod chose the flight out of Vancouver, BC instead of Seattle because the timing for the connecting flights suited them better. Joe needed more time between flights, and a trip north to Vancouver was always welcome. But that was where the fun stopped. Even without the complication of the immortals shipping swords, the lines were long, the food was bad, the flights turbulent; exhaustion complete. They skipped from Vancouver to Taiwan to Singapore to Kathmandu. Figuring in the time zones and date line changes they had no idea how long they had been traveling by the time they collapsed in Methos' tiny mud brick house.

Methos helped Joe onto a folksy, but soft sleeping platform. He drifted off to sleep wondering just what it was that the elephants and tigers frolicking on the wall hangings were up to.

Before giving into exhaustion, MacLeod and Methos spent a few minutes going through Methos' collection of swords that he had stashed in an intricately carved teak and ivory inlaid trunk. With cups of green tea they sat cross legged on the floor hefting the blades.

"I am tired," Methos said with emphasis on tired. "But I believe I was successful in killing off quite a few of those noisy brain cells giving me fits."

MacLeod unwrapped a katana with a black lacquered hilt. "Ahh, I think I've found it. What a beauty. Is there a story to go with it?"

"I'm sure there is, but unfortunately it doesn't come to mind."

MacLeod shook his head. "Sometime I can't believe how old you are."

"Then don't think about it."

"How can you forget how you came by a sword? It's not possible for an immortal."

"The sword fairy must have left it."

MacLeod rolled his eyes and snickered. "You're daft."

"Gods I pray that when you get to be my age you're discovered by a young immortal who will keep track of your every deficiency."

"I'm sure that would be wonderful, though I don't imagine I'll be around that long."

"Oh, but I insist. After all, think how senile I'll be by then. Why, I'll need a full time keeper by the time I'm ten thousand." Methos took the katana from MacLeod's hands, laid it back in the trunk, and leaned into his personal space. "Quick, kiss me before I'm too old to remember how."

In the morning Joe was startled when he opened his eyes to see the colorful wall hangings surrounding his bed. He could hear Methos singing a T. Rex song, and clattering pans on the cook-stove. Good timing, he'd never felt hungrier. He strapped himself together and stepped into the main 'room' of the house, almost tripping over MacLeod who was still hibernating in a sleeping bag on the floor.

"Oops!"

"Sorry, Joe! Mac's on the floor."

"I see that. What you got cooking? I could eat a yak."

"Sorry again, it's oatmeal."

"Oh well, I guess that will do."

Methos handed Joe a mug of coffee. "Today we will need to stock you up on groceries and fuel for the stoves before we trek. I'll introduce you to my neighbors. Show you the hot night spots. And in case you get bored, I've a couple interesting journals stashed here, written in fairly modern English."

"What, no dancing girls?"

"No. But one of the journals was written during the gay nineties, does that count? 1890's. Paris and London."

"Great. I've died and gone to Kathmandu."

Methos gave the oatmeal a final stir. "Nepal has changed so much in the last century, it even smells different, but it still is a great place to reclaim yourself."

"How often do you come?"

"I'm not sure I ever leave here."

Joe answered with a smile and a nod.

Chapter 13: ONCE UPON THE TOP OF THE WORLD

They spent three days making sure Joe was well enough established to enjoy several weeks in Kathmandu alone. MacLeod was more concerned than Methos whose greater knowledge of the watcher network led him to believe Joe would not be alone. Several times in the streets he was approached by "guides" offering their services. He turned them all down. He was sure that an examination of their wrists would have revealed watcher tattoos. Let them keep Joe company. The rest of this journey was just for two.

Joe snapped a photograph of the two immortals posing all geared up with their topis pulled over their heads, backpacks full, leaning against Methos' house, arm's around shoulders; grins large.

"Well, Joe, you behave yourself. Don't want to have to spring you from jail when we get back."

"Hey, I'm not the trouble maker."

They trundled off north on "the bus from hell" to the staging ground for their hike. By the time they arrived, after many winding miles, they had picked out the watchers amongst the other hikers crowded on the bus, and made bets on how long it would take to ditch them.

"Hiking. To go afoot. This is the way people were meant to travel."

They vanquished the miles, kilometers, whatever people wanted to call the distance. Seldom had the Earth felt a pair trek her with more alacrity. In no time at all they lost their watchers. And when the evening arrived they were reluctant to halt.

"Our first night under the stars," MacLeod commented as he sorted through gear.

"First? Oh, together. Gods, I've spent more nights under the stars than indoors."

"Isn't that a slight exaggeration?"

"Hmm. OK. Maybe fifty-fifty."

"No. I don't believe it."

"Never to be believed." Methos sighed then rolled out his sleeping bag. He drifted in and out of sleep lying on top of the bag, while MacLeod labored over their tiny camp stove, trying to turn freeze-dried rations into a meal. He watched the younger immortal from drooping eyelids. His friend looked lost in a memory. "What are you thinking, Mac?"

"I miss a wood camp fire."

"I could collect some dung for you."

MacLeod smiled. "No thank you. It isn't the same."

"You grew up with peat fires."

"Yeah, but I got spoiled in the new world, living with the Sioux. There's nothing like staring into a wood fire."

"Oh I agree, but you make do, even if it's just a single flame on a can of Sterno."

"What kind of fire did you grow up with, Methos? Answer quickly, from your gut."

"Wood. I think there was lots of rain, and forests. Wood fires."

"I wonder if it's true."

"I think so, but I can't swear it. All the years I lived in dry climates I missed the rain. My people were animists. Every living thing had a spirit that had to be considered, even some nonliving things — like the rain. There was so much we didn't understand. Life was a mystery."

"How old were you when you learned to read?"

"I've always been able to read."

"But you were a slave."

Methos scrunched up his face as if trying to fit the pieces together. "Well, I don't remember a time I couldn't read, but then I can't remember a time I wasn't immortal. Since I have a navel I suspect that I wasn't born fully formed from the head of Zeus — but a time I couldn't read, I can't imagine." He shook his head.

"How long do you think you were immortal before you took a head?"

"I suspect it was a long period of time. Three years is rather fast." Methos eluded to MacLeod's unfortunate first quickening from a deranged hermit, before the young Highland immortal understood what he was, before Connor MacLeod found and trained him.

"I didn't really take his head. With his own hand he used my sword on himself, and I certainly wasn't prepared. I miss Connor."

"Yes. I know it wasn't what you wanted, to take your teacher's quickening. But unfortunately when one of us feels compelled to leave this realm we often choose a favorite student. He doesn't want you to brood. Can you think of it as a gift?"

"Maybe someday." MacLeod handed him a bowl of soup.

"Thank you, Duncan." They ate in companionable silence huddled together on Methos' sleeping bag. After the soup was devoured they zipped their sleeping bags together, and nestled under the stars.

"Is it time for that talk we've been putting off?"

"I suppose, though we could put it off a couple more centuries."

"I keep thinking there is something about Kronos you want to tell me. But I won't ask. We can wait."

"No. And it isn't strictly about Kronos. It's about all the things that can happen to an immortal. You've had a rough decade, but you're holding up. I told you about my time in the pit. I did not hold up so well. I tried to suppress my pain. I forced myself to forget. I became angry at the world and took out my anger to the fullest extent of my ability, which turned out to be considerable. I don't want you to be as I was. Hold on."

"I will."

The air was exceedingly crisp. Methos' fingers began to travel almost of their own accord, ghosting along MacLeod's skin. "Shhh. Lie still." He continued to talk, skipping from topic to topic, hand continuously moving, exploring the body now slightly trembling next to him. Eventually Methos eased himself over his lover. They were still cocooned up to their necks by the sleeping bags. He began a downward dive spreading kisses and licks from throat to nipples to navel to just above weeping cock.

MacLeod began to growl Methos' name, and tangled his fingers in the head of short silky hair as his partner came down on him. He bent his knees and bucked slightly as Methos took nourishment from his body. The world began to spin apart, he shouted a warning as the trembling took over him and he came.

MacLeod keened softly as Methos turned him onto his stomach and then pulled him to his knees. The top sleeping bag traveled down Methos' back to just above his buttocks as he began to prepare his lover with a small tube of lubricant that had magically appeared in the sly old immortal's hand.

The keening increased in volume. He was blind to the world except where and how Methos touched him. "Please, please..."

"Soon, soon," Methos soothed as he grasped MacLeod's hips and slowly entered his body. He remained still, waiting for the pain to ease. He rested his head on lover's back, and began to hum.

MacLeod laughed. "Hey there, old love, don't loose yewr train of thought. Yew 'ave a task before yew. "

Methos laughed, withdrew with excruciating slowness, paused, (causing his lover to shout his name) then slammed home, which elicited a positive response. "Yes!" It took several wobbly strokes before they found a rhythm, but once established their follow through was way above average. It must have been the setting under the stars, finally Methos allowed Methos out to play, mild Adam was gone. A steadily increasing rhythm included louder vocal accompaniment. Reaching a level of violence he had not intended, Methos tried to ease up, but MacLeod pushed back into their connection until he was almost perched on his lap, "Hey!" "OK! OK." He pushed MacLeod back to a kneeling position and finished him with controlled energy, eventually collapsing atop the younger immortal, bringing him to the ground.

"God help me, Methos, you've stripped me to my core." MacLeod dislodged him, and rolled so they were eye to eye.

"That's how I felt the first time I saw you — stripped to the core. Strutting into my apartment, ready to take charge."

"God, don't remind me. You must have been laughing inside. Silly child going to protect the five thousand year old man."

"Only a very little. Mostly I was astonished, and touched. What a rare thing amongst our kind. I knew Darius was right."

"Right about what?"

"That you're a hopelessly naive child, that needed looking after."

MacLeod tickled the old immortal's rib cage briefly, before Methos captured his hands. "OK. He said you were a good man, and that I'd like you." They settled down, resonating in the glow; arms and legs entangled.

"Are you ready to tell me what we're chasing?"

"Almost." MacLeod sighed.

Trekking slowly over the next three days they decreased the pace that they had started with in order to allow their bodies to adjust to the increase in elevation as they made their way north and west toward Ama's village. Keeping a watch on each other, they made sure that they both adapted to the altitude. They stopped often. Methos spare physique demanded a substantial increase in caloric consumption, while MacLeod just grew leaner.

When isolated enough they would spar after making camp. The distinctive clash of steel resonated in the dusk, destroying the mountain quiet while recreating a slice of history. At night they watched the stars, followed the satellites; talked about how even the sky had changed.

On the fourth day they descended into the narrow valley where Ama's village was perched at the center of multi-terraced fields.

"Are we in Tibet now?"

"Good question. Mostly I'd say we're a long way from anywhere and a century back in time. The only place with electricity is Ama's clinic, and that is limited by what she can capture with solar panels for a generator."

The first villager they encountered, toiling in a field, greeted Methos warmly as if his arrival was expected. MacLeod caught a phrase, "doctor father" in the dialect.

After introducing MacLeod they continued, and repeated the greetings with each adult they met. "What are they calling you?"

"Ama calls me father, and she is their doctor, so -- ."

"How long has she been their doctor?"

"Almost too long. She'll have to switch villages soon, before they begin to talk about her never aging. I'll help her find a new one."

The village was small, the people friendly. They were dressed in traditional vivid colors, but with some exceptions. MacLeod was surprised to see youths in tee shirts with modern slogans.

"I thought you said this village was kind of lost in time."

"Yeah, except for the recent contamination brought here by some snake." Methos grinned and made a self mocking gesture. "I don't see it as a virtue to leave them in the past. Ama and I argue about it sometimes. The things I bring — it has to be more than just penicillin and vitamins. If I don't bring a few apples to the garden they'll be unprepared when the future finally does arrive. And that wouldn't be right would it, Boy Scout?"

"I wouldn't attempt to speculate. I'm not nearly old enough to play God — or the Devil for that matter."

Methos' grin showed both appreciation and embarrassment.

In the midst of the village, near the ornate stupa, Ama's clinic stood out from the rest of the buildings with its solar panels. The enticing strum of an ancient's quickening beckoned them to her door; as theirs drew her outside. She appeared in the doorway blinking in the sunlight. A smile spread on her beautiful heart shaped face. Ama was a tall lanky Tibetan with a timeless face, both ancient and child like. MacLeod thought this was what an old immortal should look like, a face that could be any age, with a presence that puts you in your place. He halted and stared openly at Ama.

"Welcome, Father. Who is your intense young friend?" Her accent was British trained.

"Ama, Duncan MacLeod."

"Oh dear, still playing with the young hellions?"

"They have fire."

MacLeod broke out of his trance, "A pleasure, Doctor." He reached out a hand and she grasped it firmly.

"Aren't you going to tell me you're not a hellion?"

"Heaven's no. I think you have me pegged."

She smiled and relied, "It's good to know yourself."

"Come in, and rest. I have a couple more patients to see. Give me an hour or so, and we'll settle in for a nice long talk."

She made them comfortable in her private rooms in the back of the clinic.

"Oh, Father, when the satellite is in line there will be a call for you. Jen has been calling each evening wanting to speak with you."

"So we didn't have a chance of surprising you with our arrival. What does Jen want?"

"She hasn't said. Just keeping track of you, I suppose. She suggested that you're not acting your age." This was said with a whimsical glance at MacLeod.

"Where's the fun in acting my age? I'd be reduced to lying around like a layer of dust."

Ama rolled her eyes and left them, shaking her head as she went.

While Ama tended her last patients of the day, Methos heated a pot of water for tea and washing themselves after four days of hiking.

"Ama seems very — competent, but she's not carrying a sword," MacLeod worried.

"Yes. That's another thing we argue about. She assures me she has one though, if she could just remember where. Not to worry though, there is this trick she has with her voice."

"I see. Someone challenges her, and she asks them to hand over their sword. And they do it."

"Exactly. It works on the kids your age and younger."

"Well, I'll be sure to behave myself."

After tea, and a wash, the two exhausted immortals drifted off to sleep on the thick rug and pillows that covered Ama's sitting area. Methos had just begun a nice dream when her returning presence jolted him awake.

"You have two patients waiting for you," she told the immortal she called Father.

"Oh good gods. I just got here."

"Word spreads fast. Don't complain, just go."

Methos grumbled about it, but did as he was instructed, and stumbled off to the clinic front.

Ama explained to MacLeod, "There are several elderly men who prefer not to be tended by a female doctor, so whenever Father arrives they finally come in with their health concerns."

They spoke of inconsequential niceties only briefly. MacLeod felt compelled to open up to this magnetic immortal.

"Over the few years I've known him, Methos has frequently disappeared. I always wondered where he went. When he told me Tibet, I wasn't sure he was serious. Finally he agreed to bring me with him the next time he trekked here."

"I'm glad. It's been a long time since he brought a student to me."

"He's not my teacher."

"I didn't mean Father. There are a few little tricks I sometimes pass on to the young friends of Father, or other favored young immortals in the tow of someone in our line."

"Oh. I — I'm fairly competent with a sword, but I assume we're talking about something else?"

"If I were to insist that you hand over your sword to me, could you resist?"

MacLeod narrowed his eyes, but then grinned. "If I plugged my ears. Several times Methos has tried to explain to me that I should just 'put myself somewhere else' when a — a sorcerer used the voice on me, but I do not ken this."

"Witch is OK. During one of the recent times that Father disappeared from your world he came here to mine and told me about Cassandra almost taking his head. It seems to me he's had too many near misses the last few years." Duncan nodded and a grim expression spread on his face. "Never mind that now. Tell me how you stopped Cassandra."

"I just yelled at her. Told her I wanted him to live."

"Did you threaten her?"

"No."

"Did you plead?"

"I demanded."

"With your voice?"

"Yes."

"This little lesson of mine is about using the voice — and conversely how to resist it. Without plugging you ears! Are you interested?"

"Of course. But — Methos never told me that this was what we were doing. He kept going on, about how he had to find something." There was anger in MacLeod's voice.

"Why are you irritated with him? Don't you want this skill I'm offering you?"

"Yes I do. I'm just frustrated with him sometimes. He can't seem to just tell me what's going on in his head. Even simple things."

"Yes. I've felt that same frustration, I'd forgotten. I don't expect him to open up easily — haven't for thousands of years. Think of what a scary place the inside of his head must be. I just accept him the way he is. Expecting him to be as open and communicative as a modern person is a recipe for frustration."

"You're right. And I'm honored to be adopted into your line."

Ama worked with MacLeod for the next hour, instructing him in how to put himself "elsewhere" when a sorcerer attempted to use a compelling voice on him. When Methos returned the lesson ended.

"So Father, what brings you to Tibet?"

"Well, did Mac tell you about the quickening I took?"

"No, but Jen did when she called the first time."

"It got really noisy in my head for awhile. I decided I needed a calm atmosphere for a time."

"And had you considered leaving Duncan with me to train him against the voice?"

"No. He's mine. You can't have him." MacLeod's smile lit the room.

Ama returned the smile. "But it would be a good survival skill for him."

"Well, maybe we can stay a little while. He'd have to learn fast."

"What's the rush? What's chasing you?"

"I'm — isn't it about time the satellite was lined up?"

"So it is. I'll call Jen this time. Come on." They followed Ama to the office area of the clinic. It took more than a few minutes to connect, but finally Ama handed the phone to Methos.

"Jen! I understand you've been trying to contact me."

MacLeod and Ama watched as Methos' face showed excitement about what Jen was telling him.

"But it was supposed to be in Seacouver!....Never mind....You or Helen must take it home....Just do it....I'll be there as soon as I can." Methos disconnected suddenly and turned to the two immortals who had listened in puzzlement to Methos' side of the conversation.

"She's found it. We have to go back London right away."

"Jen found the baby?" MacLeod asked.

"No, Helen — Jen's student — she's a nurse at a London hospital." Methos narrowed his eyes at MacLeod. "Anne told you." MacLeod nodded.

"And I wouldna thought yew crazy — just a little touched." Methos opened his mouth, but no words came out. "Why can't you just tell me what's going on in that head of yours? You told Anne!"

"Sorry. I don't know. Things were changing between us, I just — I don't know — I thought — ." Methos lapsed into silence, looking panicked at his partner as if he feared rejection.

"Anne said to tell you if the other mother doesn't work out she has room and heart for another."

"Oh. I thought it was supposed to be Rachel."

"I take it this baby will be an immortal?" Ama asked.

"Sorry, yes. I've been dreaming. Damn, I should have stayed with my original dream, the baby on my London doorstep. But then I dreamed about Rachel, then the totem poles."

"Which led you to Anne in Seacouver?" MacLeod asked.

"I told you his head was a scary place." Ama said with a laugh, and patted Methos' shoulder.

"Aye, but I accept him as he is."

"You two are making fun of me. This is serious. Now I have to figure out who should raise this baby."

"Why you?" Ama asked mildly.

"Because I'm old, and smarter than the rest of you."

"Of course, Father. Tell me, this Anne, who was the only one you could tell about the baby, why was she the only one you could tell?"  
"Because she needed to know. Because I thought she would find the baby in her hospital."  
"But I thought you were dreaming that you would find the baby on your doorstep?" MacLeod pointed out reasonably.

"But after I took that crazy lurker's quicken — Gods listen to me — I had a dream about Rachael. She was talking, but I couldn't hear. I thought she said 'baby.' Later we found out she is pregnant."

"And Anne and the totems?" Ama prompted.

"That was several days later."

"After the quickening had settled?"

"Yeah."

MacLeod spoke in a soft voice. "Maybe, just maybe, if you'd let me know some of this I could have helped you reason out the puzzle."

"Yeah." Methos sighed and lowered his head.

Ama cleared her throat. "Duncan seems to be a fast learner. Maybe if you spared me a few days before you dashed off again I could teach him the 'elsewhere' trick."

"You don't think he'll take fifty years to learn it like Jen did?"

"Jen did not require fifty years, you just left her with me because she was driving you crazy."

"Well you can't keep Mac."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"I suppose Helen and Jen can cope with one little baby for a few more days, while you teach Mac your trick, and I contemplate this mother-child union."

"And think of all the great stories I can tell Duncan about you, Father."

"We should go now."

MacLeod stepped behind Methos and wrapped his arms around him and held him in place. With his chin resting on Methos' shoulder he said, "I've got you. You can stop running."

Methos sighed. "Thanks, Duncan. I'm OK. Let go. I need to call Joe, tell him we'll be back in a week, seven days at the latest. Have him make the reservations to London."

"Once around the world?"

"Yeah, it's the journey you know. Not the destination."

(end)


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